Flaming Lips, The Yugos, Kim Taylor and more bring Bunbury 2014 to a close

Sideways rain and swamp-ass, but it wasn't so bad. The storms were intermittent, the day was clearly not a total washout and, out of the nine days of Bunbury over the past three years, this one might just have ended on the highest note of them all.Upon arrival, I was greeted by above-and-beyond volunteer Jacob Heintz, who advised serious attention to hydration, as several people had already passed out from the heat. In order to accommodate more fluids, I needed to make a deposit at the Yeatman's Cove First National Bank of Evacuation.You know what's great about the Porta-Kleens in the summer? Heated seats. You know what's not great about Porta-Kleens in the summer? Heated everything else. I felt like I was microwaved to about medium rare by the time I was done with business. But I was treated to a bit of pithy wisdom in the form of a neatly scrawled line of graffiti in the unit — "No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky." Of course, the trade-off is that birds can shit anywhere they like, which somehow seems to involve my windshield an inordinate number of times a week.At any rate, a spotty rain began within minutes of my arrival, so I headed down to the Main Stage to see if things were continuing on schedule. On the way, I passed Daniel in Stereo on the Acoustic Stage, where he seemed to be offering an evocative Jeff Buckley vibe. Very nice. When I got to the Main Stage, the Brick + Mortar set had just begun. The politically conscious World Rock guitar/drum duo from Toms River, N.J., was cooking along nicely, but about three songs in, the lightning flashed, the thunder cracked and the staff shut them down. "That sucks," noted guitarist/vocalist Brandon Asraf. "I had just tricked you into liking me for a minute." Then he launched into a stand-up comedy bit, quoting Half Baked and bemoaning his lack of life compared to his engaged drummer, John Tacon. "I'm single and chubby. What's up?" he said, canvassing the crowd. The crew finally had to shut off the power so that was the end of Brick + Mortar. (The band will return to Cincy on Aug. 15 for a free show on Fountain Square.)Shortly after that, the flaming finger of God erupted from multiple clouds and the rain, gentle at first, ultimately came pissing down from the heavens. I had taken refuge in the Yeatman's Cove tunnels and thought I'd gotten way lucky to avoid the torrential downpour, but that proved ineffective as well when a tornadic wind blew the rain horizontally straight through the passageway. Everyone was drenched from cowlick to ass-crack and beyond.Luckily, the storm didn't last long and the only issue at that point was how long the clean up and reset would take. I wandered down to the Main Stage to see if Red Wanting Blue was going to happen, but it appeared as though it would take a considerable amount of time, so I motored back down to the Warsteiner Stage to see what progress had been made there. To my unending delight, Kim Taylor was just getting started about the time she should have been wrapping up. I've been completely smitten with Kim's work since a friend at my long since defunct graphic design day job lived in the same apartment building with her. She had just begun her music career and had given my friend a copy of her self-released EP, which he passed along to me. Her gently compelling voice, her introspective and intelligent lyrics and her melancholic mastery of melody certainly gave me a chill similar to the one I felt after my first experience with Suzanne Vega, but Kim was most assuredly following a unique path, and so it has remained for the past decade and a half. I've seen Kim numerous times over the years and written at least three features and a few MidPoint previews ahead of her releases and appearances, and she never disappoints, as an interview or as an artist. The power of her presentation at Bunbury was obvious; with no more than her acoustic guitar and drummer Devon Ashley, Kim Taylor turned the vast expanse in front of the Warsteiner Stage into an intimate performance space that crackled with a quiet intensity. It is powerful testimony to Kim's ability to hold an audience that, with dark clouds roiling overhead and thunder rumbling ominously in the distance, there was even greater drama brewing on the Warsteiner Stage.After a quick stop to use the Big Mac Bridge as an umbrella, it was down to the Lawn Stage to witness the mind-bending energy of The Yugos. The relatively new and insanely young four-piece channel the absolute best elements of '70s Punk and New Wave with a dash of Surf and a couple hundred thousand volts of charisma. Spend any appreciable time with The Yugos and you'll detect distinct flashes of the jerky time signatures of XTC and Talking Heads, the Pop verve of Flock of Seagulls and the dark intensity of Echo and the Bunnymen. Drummer Jordin Gough jumps around the stage as though fire ants have been ceremonially sewn into his black jeans; he stands on his drum stool and beats on his kit from above, he takes the floor tom into the audience and thumps on it like a brave calling his tribe to action, while bassist Jeremy Graham provides an equally schizophrenic bottom and guitarists Christian Gough and Jackson Deal are peeling off punky New Wave riffs and licks that are as nerve-rattlingly appealing as The Cure on speed or Devo on hallucinogenics laced with antipsychotics. At their Lawn Stage set, The Yugos rolled out their latest track, "Follow You," did the song about a dream where a robot chased Christian down a hill, constantly called out a guy in the audience that looked like James Franco, dedicated a song to Seth Rogen and implored the assembled multitude to shake their asses. Comedy, Surf/Punk and a heart needle full of adrenaline combine to make the perpetual motion music machine known as The Yugos; with five years under their belts already, they're bound to last a hell of a lot longer than their namesakes.After a delicious burger from Dutch's in the Craft Beer Village and an equally delicious Puma Pilsner, courtesy of Black Owls hammer Brian Kitzmiller, it was a stroll over to the Main Stage to see ZZ Ward crank up her last couple of songs for a large and enthusiastic crowd and then down to the River Stage to catch a few songs from hot DJ/multi-instrumentalist Robert Delong, who filled the Serpentine Wall with Electronic music devotees who were digging his live-looped vibe with an almost religious fervor. Back on the Main Stage, Young the Giant blasted the swelling multitudes with the sticky/sweet Indie Rock hard candy that put them on a lot of attendees' must-see lists.I took my leave of the growing crowd in front of the Main Stage — a combination of devoted Young the Giant fans and Flaming Lips aficionados staking out their space for the imminent start time — to catch The Orwells at the Warsteiner Stage. The Orwells made my personal don't-miss list after a little due diligence in checking out their history and sound online for a preview in last week's CityBeat and they didn't disappoint. The quartet's central Illinois lineage is pretty much all the Pop cred they require and they use it to sweeten their rough-edged Garage/Punk love, as evidenced on last year's Disgraceland and the subsequent Other Voices and Who Needs YouEPs. Given the band's ramshackle nature (they'd pair up nicely with Cincy bands Mad Anthony or The Harlequins for a local show), it seemed like The Orwells might come a little unglued in the live presentation, but they were perhaps a little more restrained than I would have imagined. That could have been the post-storm vibe. They did toss out a raw chunk of the Foundations' "Build Me Up Buttercup," so that was pretty cool. Here's hoping we can get them back for a full show in better circumstances in the very near future so we can see what happens when The Orwells really put the pedal to the floor.I reluctantly ducked out of The Orwells a bit early to establish position for The Flaming Lips’ show, given the crush of rabid fans that were in all likelihood packing the front of the stage. For the sake of full disclosure, it should be noted at this juncture that I was looking forward to this show because I am a Flaming Lips virgin. I drank the Kool-Aid with Oh My Gawd!!! way back in 1987, but missed the local show on that tour because of my freelance production schedule. Since then, I've totally dug the studio Lips but somehow have never found my way to experiencing the live Lips; the closest I've ever gotten was nine years ago when I was in Austin for SXSW and Wayne Coyne came rolling down Sixth Street in the bubble with some sort of boombox entourage trailing behind, offering a soundtrack to the proceedings. And I suppose I could claim a certain amount of Lips cred for my two band interviews, the first with Steven Drozd in 2003 after the release of Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots and the second with Wayne in 2008 to talk about the DVD release ofChristmas on Mars. But the Bunbury show represented the taking of my live Flaming Lips cherry; after a quarter century of studio foreplay, I was more than ready. And what a glorious deflowering it was. After taking to the stage, which was appointed like a Peter Max flashback of Leary-esque proportions, the Lips launched into "The Abandoned Hospital Ship," with Wayne outfitted in a tinsel hairsuit that gave him the appearance of a glammed up Sasquatch. When it was over, he greeted the crowd warmly and promised that, should the rain begin again to the extent that the show had to be stopped, the Lips would be staying and they would finish the show, no matter what. The vast expanse of Lips fans roared their relief and the band shot headlong into "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt. 1," and the crowd's bliss was palpable. After a set that was filled with brilliant Lippage ("Look...The Sun is Rising" and "A Spoonful Weighs a Ton" among them), dancing rainbows, magic mushrooms big enough to give Mario a coke boner, a gyrating sun and a video/LED presentation splashy enough to trigger a mild epileptic seizure, the clouds cried just slightly at the prospect of the end of the evening. The Lips took a short breather and then returned with the biggest one-two pay-off in Bunbury's short but potent history; the gorgeously contemplative "Do You Realize??" from Yoshimi and an absolutely epic version of the Beatles' "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," punctuated by several blasts from the four giant confetti cannons on stage. If I smoked cigarettes, I surely would have sparked one up after that conclusion.And thus marked the end of Bunbury's third installment. The last day's weather difficulties notwithstanding, it was another flawlessly presented and managed music festival put on by one of the city's most knowledgeable and Zen-like business heads, Bill Donabedian, and his amazing staff, who all handle every detail from gravely major to almost subatomically minor with a combination of ninja professionalism and weaponized OCD. And, as Bill would be the first to tell you, it couldn't be done without the walking live army of volunteers who make this thing run with the precision of God's pocketwatch. Plans are already afoot for Bunbury 4; they get harder to surpass with each subsequent summer, and somehow Bill and his festival all-stars manage to do just that. See you at the gate next July.SIDE NOTES• A lot of notable absences in the crowd this year, particularly my brother-from-another-mother Matthew Fenton. Either he just couldn't make it down this year, or he's actually perfected his cloak of invisibility and skillfully avoided me for the entire weekend. I hope it's the former.• Even with Sunday's threatened inclement weather, or as departing WCPO meterologist Larry Handley would characterize it, the blow job that nobody wants (no, Larry wouldn't say that, but I would and, in fact, just did), there was still a great turnout for the day's lineup. There was the inevitable run-in with Brent and Kat, and that makes every day worthwhile; they headed down to Brick + Mortar and after a swing around the grounds, I headed that way myself.• With the advent of lightning and the first shutdowns of the day, I headed for the Yeatman's Cove tunnels before things got too crazy. Moments after entering, the sky opened up and the rain pissed down, so I thought luck was on my side. I stopped to talk with a group of photographers, one of whom I've seen numerous times at Bunbury and MidPoint, which has made us sort of nodding acquaintances. We chatted for a bit, then he introduced himself as Steve Ziegelmeyer and asked if I had attended a wedding last year for someone from Jungle Jim's. In fact, my wife and daughter and I have gotten to know one of the guys from the dairy department at the Route 4 store who goes by Squidd, and when he announced that he was engaged, he insisted that we come to the wedding, which we were honored to do. Turns out Steve's wife works with Squidd's wife at Jungle Jim's Eastgate store, and he was at the wedding. And when he said it, I totally remembered seeing him there and completely blanking on where I knew him from. He gave me his card and an idea for a feature; I'll be remembering him now.• While I was waiting to see what would come of Kim Taylor's set, up strolled Eddy Mullet and his daughter Jess, looking none too worse the wear from Saturday's festivities. (Well, Eddy doesn't drink and Jess is 17, so the beating I take is typically incrementally worse than theirs, but I digress.) When the storm cranked up again, we headed for the shelter of the bridge and told ghost stories (they've got really good ones) until the sound of The Yugos drew us to the Lawn Stage.• We were headed to Robert Delong's set when I was waylaid by Mr. Brian Kitzmiller, a drum beater of epic reputation and a beer buyer worthy of sainthood, or at least knighthood. When I steered over to Dutch's food booth for a burger, Brian introduced me to Jerry and Pam who run Dutch's (Brian knows at least 60% of every group of people that he finds himself in), as well as a couple of guys from the band The Easthills, who were playing the part of the Black Owls this year (their early afternoon set was rained out, like the Owls’ were in Year 1.) Over by the Delong set, the ubiquitous and always welcome King Slice appeared, as did Owls bassist Kip Roe and his sons, Kip Jr. and Ben, and we had ourselves a Rock & Roll convoy.• Just before the Lips' extravaganza got underway, I ran into 500 Miles to Memphis frontman Ryan Malott, another prince of the local music realm, who was on his way down to the Warsteiner Stage to catch The Orwells. We had talked about the show when Ryan came into Class X to do Eddy's Kindred Sanction program for a Bunbury preview and a chat about the new 500MTM album, Stand There and Bleed, and I'm glad he reminded me. As I hit the Craft Beer Village on my way to The Orwells, I was absolutely floored to see my old friend Ric Hickey, one of the best guitarists this scene has ever produced, escorting his ladyfriend Michelle down to the Lips show. We caught up for a hot minute, then went our ways. Once at the Warsteiner Stage, as The Orwells were winding up, I spotted Mark Messerly near the back of the crowd, clearly contemplating how he would approach his Messerly & Ewing gig at next week's Buckle Up. No he was not; he was drinking a beer and imploring The Orwells to ramp it up. You know Mark. Venomous Valdez was right behind him, a vision in yellow on her birthday eve. Many happy returns, double V. And I finally caught up with Ryan, who introduced me to his lovely and relatively new wife Gina (I had to ask for her name twice because I'm old, I've got 40+ years of Rock & Roll ears and The Orwells had, in fact, ramped it up). As NRBQ once noted, you're good people, you are.• We all wound up hanging together for a good portion of the Lips' set, but one of my favorite moments was the Roe boys' faces when I confessed that this was my first live Lips lock. They couldn't have looked more astonished if I'd told them I'd just eaten a half pound of heroin-soaked grapes. Kip and his boys have seen the Lips on numerous occasions and, as a result, once we got camped near the stage, Kip Jr. tapped me on the shoulder and very politely began pointing out the elements of the Lips' set design and what everything was for. It was a very good tutorial, a sweet gesture for a teenager to connect with an old duffer such as myself, and proof positive that childrearing is a high art and Kip Roe should teach the whole bloody world exactly how to do it.• Finally, for the third consecutive year, the unofficial and extremely subjective results of my annual “Best T-Shirts at Bunbury” competition, selected and judged by me alone. This year was interesting for a couple of reasons, primarily because of Saturday's headliners, Paramore and Fall Out Boy. Their numerous fans were displaying their band love loud and proud, but I was struck by a rather odd observation; I'm fairly certain I didn't see two Fall Out Boy T-shirts featuring the same design (at least until the day after the show, when people who didn't have shirts likely bought them at the merch booths). Someone is accruing Donald Trump-like wealth from marketing an almost endless variety of FOB tees, that's for bloody sure. The other constant on Saturday was a steady parade of people in Ramones tees, in honor of Tommy Erdelyi, the last surviving original member of the legendary Punk band who succumbed to cancer on Friday. Bogart's owner Al Porkolab used to say that the best seat for a Ramones show was across the street at Dollar Bill's, where you could hear every note perfectly. I got his point, but I preferred my Ramones straight from the pipe. At any rate, R.I.P., Tommy.And so, as always, in no particular order, until the winner at the end:Hydrate ResponsiblyAbraham Drinkin#DopeI (graphic of Kurt Russell as Snake Pliskin) NYSoul PunkBad Decisions Make Great StoriesI Had Fun Once. It Was Awful.Y'All (in the Yale typeface)G-Dub (with George Washington in Raybans)Nope (with Shepard Faireyesque cat illustration); followed byDope (with Shepard Faireyesque Questlove illustration)There were many Foxy Shazam tees as well, including a vintage Flamingo Trigger design but my favorite was “Foxy Shazam. White Music for Black People”Got B3? (I'm assuming they mean the keyboard and not the vitamin)I Eat Glitter for BreakfastRock is Dead. Long Live Paper.I May Be Your Best OptionI Ain't Even MadAnd my favorite T-shirt from this year's Bunbury crowd:T-Rex hates push-ups (with a silhouette graphic depicting exactly why)

Foxy Shazam, Fall Out Boy, Jesse Thomas and more highlight Bunbury's second day

Another pretty good day overall. The temperature was a little higher, as was the humidity, and even when the clouds moved in and things seemed perhaps a little iffy, the good weather prevailed and all was right for the second day of Bunbury, v.3.The day began as it ended the previous evening, with some quick face time with volunteer excelsior and one of the scene's most gifted guitarists, Jacob Heintz. A Bunbury blessing from Jacob is the first step in a great day. And before I'd even gotten to the gate, I was called out by Brandon Weaver, owner/operator of Iron Wing Studio in Covington, who hosted my interview with Seabird last year; he's got a great facility and he's a really nice guy, so if you're looking for a place to paint your sonic masterpiece, give him a call.I wasn't really committed to seeing anything until relatively late in the schedule, so I decided to just float around the stages for the first few slots and maybe do a little sampling from each. It was a pretty successful plan, as it turned out.My first stop was the Warsteiner Stage to check out Miner, but the guy at the mic introduced the group as the Family Band, so apparently there was a Miner adjustment. Hahahahahahaha. I'm laughing because I know you're not. At any rate, the rather large band sounded a lot like our own Josh Eagle and the Harvest City, if they'd been juiced up on My Morning Jacket. They were quite good.Next it was a quick jaunt down to the Amphitheater Stage to see Brent James & the Vintage Youth. What started out as super tight bar boogie a la Aerosmith evolved into a super smart Rock show that drew on any number of potent influences, all of which were on full display when James and the Youth rolled out an absolutely jaw-dropping cover of Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues," a blazing blend of Bon Jovi dramatics and Georgia Satellites off-the-rails jamarama. Equally impressive was James' soulful swagger on "Needle to the Groove," and imagine my surprise when James called out his band, which includes regional wunderkind Ricky Veeneman, who won the 1999 Jimi Hendrix National Guitar Competition (when he was 15, by the way) and bassist Matt Gandenberger, who provided four-string assistance on a couple of tracks on Ricky's 2003 album, Change. James noted that the band would be opening for ZZ Top at the Horseshoe Casino in the near future, so here's a note to ticketholders — don't skip the opener.After the Vintage Youth, I wandered down to the Main Stage to take in a little of Crass Mammoth's set. After a handful of songs, they struck me as gritter, punkier Modest Mouse with a Classic Rock vein and melodic Pop undercurrent that guitarist/vocalist Joseph Crowe characterized as "the cute part of the show." And once that was concluded, the north Georgia trio went right back to raw and ripping mode. There's a good chance that Crass Mammoth made as many new fans today as they drew from their fervent existing fan base.From there, it was back to the Warsteiner Stage for an uplifting and raucous set from the pride of Hartford, Connecticut, Bronze Radio Return. Although there was more than a hint of Mumford and Sons/Lumineers Folk/Pop to BRR's presentation, there were also Rock elements ranging from The Black Crowes to Tom Petty to shades of Crash Test Dummies. The band drew a relatively big crowd and a good many of them were already fans, as evidenced by the large number of people singing along with nearly every song. Bronze Radio Return's frontman, Chris Henderson, was engaging and very much the band's ringmaster, their material was anthemic and joyful and I would love to see what the band would do with a long form set.At this point, I decided to get my wander on and just roam the Bunbury grounds getting a taste of the musical talent that had been assembled for Day 2. First, there was New Politics down at the Main Stage, which reminded me of Neon Trees with a considerably heavier bottom and a Hip Hop heart. Next up was Bonesetters, a great Americana/Indie Rock band from Indianapolis that shimmered in the heat of the Lawn Stage with a palpable Jim James/Ryan Adams/Eef Barzelay vibe. Then it was back over to the Warsteiner Stage to catch a few songs from Nashville's Fly Golden Eagle, an atmospheric Roots/Soul/Psych Rock aggregation that grooves and jangles and totally lives up to the title of their 2011 album, Swagger. They've toured with Alabama Shakesm Dr. Dog and Arctic Monkeys and garnered comparisons to Lips both Black and Flaming, Beck and the Black Crowes, and that adds up to a band that needs to come on back. After digging a few FGE songs, I drifted down to the Amphitheater Stage to enjoy local-girl-made-good Jesse Thomas, who's gotten her songs placed on Shameless and Hart of Dixie. The L.A. resident/Covington native has a tang and twang that suggests Patty Griffin, Kathleen Edwards and Shawn Colvin, and that ain't bad company no matter how you slice it. Jesse drew a pretty healthy hometown crowd and she made the most of her first festival appearance, Bunbury or otherwise.After Jesse Thomas' spirited set, it was a short stroll over to the Lawn Stage to experience the full frontal assault of Nashville's Modoc, who I got into by way of a story I did earlier in the year on Melvin Dillon and his vinyl-only label Soul Step Records. Modoc was one of Melvin's early signings when he approached the band about pressing vinyl on their excellent debut full-length. In the studio, Modoc make a mighty racket that crashes happily at the intersection of Led Zeppelin and Southern Rock, but everything that the band does so well in the sterile confines of the recording booth are amplified a dozen times and set ablaze like Jimi Hendrix's Stratocaster. Thunderous riffs, razor wire slide leads, pummeling bass lines and a drum sound heavy enough to drill through solid bedrock, Modoc does it all with a wink/nod sense of humor and a joyful passion that comes through with every note. They've played a couple of MidPoints (they’ll be back for this year’s MPMF) and they're building a pretty sizable following, if their Bunbury turnout was any indication. And as frontman Garry Crisp so eloquently put it, "We love Cincinnati. It's got sin in it twice!" Right back atcha, G-Dawg.I managed to see at least some of Jane Decker's set. I'd talked to Jane and bassist Mitch Winsett two years ago when Belle Histoire was still a viable concern, but the band has since scattered to the wind and Jane has stepped away from a band configuration to make her mark as a solo artist. Her Bunbury set was supposed to be a full band gig, but something happened in the days before the festival and she wound up on the Lawn Stage singing to the acoustic guitar accompaniment of Sean (just Sean, apparently), her songwriting partner on a good deal of the album that is currently being mastered for an imminent release. Jane auditioned for The Voice last season and was bounced because the judges didn't know what to do with her. As I sat listening to her acoustic set at Bunbury, her incredibly poppy songs stripped to the essentials of Jane's beautiful Dolores O'Riordon-tinted voice and the simple counterpoint of Sean's tasteful acoustic soundtrack, I cannot imagine what Adam Levine wasn't hearing. Any of the songs Jane presented in her acoustic set could be produced up to megahit proportions and go toe-to-toe with Lorde, Arianna Grande, or whoever is the flavor of the moment. It certainly seems like Jane's moved beyond The Voice incident (the failure being theirs and not hers), and is ready to pursue her dream and make a skadillion dollars without Blake Shelton's help.Molly Sullivan won the Singer/Songwriter CEA back in January and every time she puts herself in front of an audience, she offers a little more evidence to support that honor. She has an amazing vocal range, from midnight howl to 3 a.m. hush and she has the uncanny ability to shift from melodic Folk/Pop beauty to dissonant Jazz artfulness while retaining the thread of her creative identity. Molly's set at the Acoustic Stage was simply fantastic, further proof that her CEA win was no fluke and is likely to be followed by a few more similar triumphs down the line.Over at the Main Stage, it wasn't too hard to see why Paramore is the current darling of high-octane Pop Rock. The band was physically moving air during their powerful and obviously well received set; their drums pounded their way into your rib cage and altered your heartbeat to a different time signature. I stuck around for a handful of songs but ultimately opted for an early exit in order to find some prime real estate on the Serpentine Wall.Tonight would be Foxy Shazam's second appearance at Bunbury, and they had their work cut out for themselves. No one who witnessed their gig at the inaugural Bunbury two years ago will ever forget it; frontman Eric Nally imploring the Reds' Joey Votto to "hit the motherfucker out of the park," and Sky White tossing his keyboard into the crowd and then leaping in after it, continuing to play while the audience held it and him aloft. Oh, and they played a lot of great music. And therein lies a common misperception, that the band's onstage antics are somehow going to detract from their musical performance. This notion is typically floated by people who have never seen Foxy Shazam work an audience like a skilled pickpocket while simultaneously putting on a dazzling Rock show.As advertised, Foxy presented their new album Gonzo in its entirety for the first 30 minutes of the set, with bassist Daisy Kaplan on guitar and guitarist Loren Turner on bass (it was a device they used to jump start the writing process and they decided to maintain the set up for the live translation). Where The Church of Rock and Roll was more of an immediate album, Gonzo is a work that reveals its gifts slowly, and those albums always seem to wind up being fan favorites. The packed Wall showed their appreciation for Gonzo with a fevered response to each of the album's nine songs.Of course, it wouldn't be a Foxy show without Nally's brilliant non sequitur patter — like "The only difference between me and a scholar is how much we paid for what we know," and "If it was legal to shoot people, I'd be dead." The real showstopper came in the second half of the set, when Foxy hauled out the back catalog and Kaplan and Turner returned to their regular roles. By this time, trumpeter/vocalist Alex Nauth had tossed his horn into the light rigging a half dozen times, White had played his keys with his ass and Nally had somersaulted, vaulted, balanced and slid all over the stage. After blowing through high voltage turns on "Holy Touch" and "I Like It" (where Nally adlibbed, "Let me see your butthole, baby," something I'm fairly certain I never heard Barry White utter), among others, Nally introduced the band's last song of the evening thusly: "This next song, this last song, is about time travel. I wrote it next week." And with that, Foxy Shazam roared headlong into "Unstoppable," the anthemic 2010 hit from their self-titled album. As the band neared the end of the song, Nally called for cigarettes from the crowd; grabbing one from a pack, he lit it with a lighter thrown on the stage and called for the lights to be killed. As "Unstoppable" faded to its squalling conclusion, Nally blew sparks out of the end of the cigarette into the darkness on the stage, and then shrieked, "You're all pregnant!" He dropped the mic, the lights came up and that was the end. As unlikely as it seemed less than an hour before, Foxy Shazam had indeed cleared the bar they'd set two years ago. As the late Jack Palance used to intone on a weekly basis, "Believe it … or not."I hung around after Foxy to chat with ClassX Radio’s Eddy Mullet whose daughter had a little trouble with rude doofuses, but he handled it with aggressive diplomacy. We were talking about our plans for the end of the evening, and I was tempted to bail on Fall Out Boy to get home and get started on these reviews, while Eddy seemed ready to call it a day as well. But at the last moment I decided to catch at least a few songs from the last band of the day, and announced it with the unfortunate phraseology, "I think I'll go check out a little Boy." Eddy's daughter Jess went, "Uhhh. …" Point taken.So we all headed off toward the Main Stage area, me to find a good viewing position and them to see if the exit next to the stage was open (it wasn't). Having come this far, Eddy decided to stick around as well, and so we all lingered for a bit to witness the Pop/Punk majesty of Fall Out Boy. I've always liked the Wentz/Stump dynamic, perhaps not enough to passionately explore their output, but more than enough to appreciate the fact that they've elevated the conversation in the genre. But as Shakespeare noted, the play's the thing, and Fall Out Boy do the thing pretty well. Bookended by festival closers that were and would be visual orgasms of color and light (Empire of the Sun on Friday, Flaming Lips on Sunday), FOB chose to make their presentation the spectacle, playing their hits and beyond with an expansive flair without forgetting that they were compact and energetic Punk-tinted Pop songs. About midway through the set, an already adrenalized crowd went ballistic when Paramore's Hayley Williams stepped out to duet with the band on "Sugar, We're Goin Down," and the frenzy just continued from there. Patrick Stump played to the hometown crowd by giving a shout out to "our friends in Foxy Shazam," which was nice, and later Stump asked how many parents were in the audience, and reminisced how his father would take him to Punk shows in Chicago when he was a teenager, and as a tribute to all the DNA-linked chaperones in attendance, peeled off a sweet version of "We Are the Champions," followed with an incendiary spin through "Save Rock and Roll." At that point, we took our leave to beat the rush; as I was headed toward my car, I could hear the strains of "My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark," and I was really glad I'd stuck around to experience Fall Out Boy in this perfect setting.SIDE NOTES• On Bunbury Day 2, I began the day by filling the gastank with a carton of Island Noodles (with the teriyaki chicken, thank you), an amazing repast that lasted well into the evening, when I had a slightly less amazing but incredibly delicious Kobe Dog from Dutch's booth. Both are highly recommended (but the noodles are less likely to stop your heart; on the other hand, we're walking it off, are we not?)• Saturday had a much different crowd vibe than Friday, due to the headliners for the evening, Paramore and Fall Out Boy. Usually I run into a half dozen friends and acquaintances before I've decided on which lunch and what beer to chase it. But it wasn't too long before I ran into Brent and Kat, the scene's most visible couple. They mentioned they were going to catch an unannounced set by Billy Catfish, and Kat said that she had noticed a distinct similarity between Billy's eyes and Brent's eyes. To that end, she noted that if Brent kicks it, she's going to ask Billy out. To which Brent replied, "If Kat dies, I'll ask Billy out, too." Together in everything, as it should be. Not long after, I crossed paths once again with another prince of the realm, The Ready Stance's Wes Pence and his son Wyatt, on the lookout for action of every imaginable variation. If you don't know Wes, there is a great gaping void in your life. And if you don't know The Ready Stance, same thing. As Dr. Steven Brule says, “Check it out.”• I had seen photographer extraordinaire (and CityBeat alum) Sean Hughes having a little difficulty getting into the photo pit at the Warsteiner Stage with his pass on Friday (for the love of Annie Leibowitz, do you people know who he is?), and I told him that I was about to come over and throw my weight around. Not influence — I have none of that anywhere — but my actual weight. I can create a fatass distraction like nobody's business. On Saturday, Sean noted that he could have used my help later the day before, but I reminded him, "I can't be where you are, you have to be where I am, that's how my fatassery works." Then he saw girls in the misting station and said, "People getting wet … that's my thing," and off he went. Another prince? Most assuredly.• At the Modoc show, I caught up with Soul Step Records owner/operator Melvin Dillon and his lovely sister Wendy. I figured I'd see Melvin there; he's a big fan of Modoc, having sought them out specifically to press the vinyl version of their self-titled debut LP. Melvin mentioned that he's currently working with a big name local band (I won't jinx the deal by announcing anything … yet) to do the vinyl version of their new album. Stay tuned. It will be epic.• Once again, ran into Eddy Mullet, only this time with two daughters in his entourage; his youngest daughter Cassie was along for the ride on Saturday. Not quite the music fan that her sister Jess has become, Cassie did have a full-bore good time at the Foxy Shazam extravaganza, so she may be making some forays into the local music world with dear old dad in the near future. Or maybe not. Kids will always find their own way.

If you were excited to catch New Jersey Indie Pop duo Brick + Mortar at last weekend’s Bunbury Music Festival, you were probably also disappointed that the twosome’s set was cut short due to bad weather. But next month you’ll have another chance to see the band. And it won’t cost you a penny.
When the MidPoint Indie Summer series on Fountain Square was announced, organizers held back unveiling the full lineup for the Aug. 15 show. Ohio party rockers The Nightbeast were the only performers announced at the time. (Below is The Nightbeast's latest music video, "Paid and Rowdy.")
Now that Bunbury is over, organizers have announced that Brick + Mortar will join The Nightbeast as co-headliners for the free Aug. 15 show. B+M is signed to Island Records and its track “Locked in a Cage,” released earlier this year, did well on the Alt music charts.
The rest of Aug. 15 lineup will be announced soon. For the full rundown of Indie Summer shows on Fountain Square, click here.UPDATE: The other two acts for the Aug. 15 Indie Summer show have been announced: The Protomen (who will be fresh off their stint on the Warped Tour) will headline and Dayton's Dangerkids will also perform. Another Bunbury band, Ohio Folk Rock crew Saintseneca, will also be returning to Cincinnati soon. The band is slated to perform at the MidPoint Music Festival in late September. Check out Saintseneca's recent appearance on World Cafe here. Get tickets, check out the ever-growing lineup and find more MPMF info here.

Locals shine one Day 1 of the third annual Bunbury fest

A perfect day, hot enough but not so hot as to suggest the idea that the ghosts of dead ants broiled by sadistic children with magnifying glasses were somehow exacting their revenge from beyond the veil of ant Valhalla. Why, yes, the '70s were good to me. Why do you ask?
At any rate, the potential for another spectacular launch to Bunbury's first day was palpable as ID was proffered, the laminate was provided and the wristband was snapped into position. The game is afoot (or as my wife's podiatrist might counter, the foot is a game … but I digress. Why, yes the ’70s were good to me. Why do you ask?) and another spectacular Bunbury awaits.
The beginning of the day was essentially a sampler platter of roaming about and checking out a few songs from a variety of sources. I started off down at the Amphitheater Stage to check out The Upset Victory, who had drawn a pretty sizable crowd for their muscular U2-tinged brand of melodically gritty Roots/Punk. Then it was down to the Warsteiner Stage for a more lengthy taste of Snowmine, who return to the '80s/'90s with a 21st century vengeance, mining a thick vein of Depeche Mode, along with a '90s aggressive Ambient quality and a quietly powerful modern edge. Then it was down to the Main Stage for a quick shot of X Ambassadors, who blend big tribal drumming with a Punk-fueled Pop core, a little like Imagine Dragons with a few hundred thousand volts pumped directly into their hearts. Finally it was back to the Amphitheater for a few songs from the soon-to-be-large Let It Happen, who were delivering their Green Day-esque anthemics in the blistering mid-afternoon glare of the unfiltered sun.
Then it was time to hit the Lawn Stage for the triumphant return of 500 Miles to Memphis. Frontman Ryan Malott has streamlined the band down to a potent quintet (guitarist Aaron Whalen, bassist Noah Sugarman, drummer-of-the-gods Kevin Hogle and the lap-steel-and-all-round-magnificence of David Rhodes Brown) and turned up the juice to emphasize the Roots/Rock thunder and downplay the Country lightning. There's still plenty of twang in their thang, but the sizzle and the sound is turned up to 11 in the slimmer, trimmer 500MTM. The band was clearly itching to tear shit up; they've been hard at work for the last couple of years or more assembling their new album, the imminent Stand There and Bleed (the title is a Tombstone reference; if you know the movie, you know the exact scene, and if you don't, shame on you for missing the greatest Western depiction of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday ever, so go fix that before another hour goes by).
Malott and the 500 blew through a set that was stacked with great new material (particularly "Bethel," a tribute to Malott's hometown), but they didn't forget to give the master his due, pulling DRB up from his lap steel duties to haul out yet another chilling spin on Trent Reznor's "Hurt"; if the hair doesn't stand up on your neck when the Colonel's baritone rumbles out, "You can have it all, my empire of dirt," you've got one of those weird, hairless necks. 500 Miles to Memphis has been well out of the public eye for the last year as they concentrated on life pursuits and sporadic turns in the studio to finesse Stand There and Bleed, so there was an urgency to get their fresh live set across as a clarion call to let everyone know they're back. Are they ever.
After a quick stop to water my horse (namely, me), it was a fast walk over to the Acoustic Stage for an hour of blissful Roots/Folk brilliance from Aaron Lee Tasjan, whose sideman work with Todd Snider, the New York Dolls, Drivin' N' Cryin' and Tim Easton has earned him a reputation as one of Americana's most reliably astonishing guitarists. But it's his solo persona that is becoming even more fully realized, as his sterling EP releases — 2011's August Moon, 2012's The Thinking Man's Filth and the just released Crooked River Burning — have shown Tasjan to be a songwriter of depth and beauty will beyond his calendar age. Listen to any given ALT song and you'll hear hints of Nick Drake, Bob Dylan, Will Kimbrough, Rodney Crowell and Ryan Adams in his delivery.
In Tasjan's Folk world, there is no bellybutton introspection set to a strummed acoustic guitar; he'll peel off a solo worthy of Jimi Hendrix after telling a story about seeing Ted Nugent shoot flaming arrows into cardboard effigies of his enemies list worthy of Arlo Guthrie. There aren't many singer/songwriters (read that: any) who are writing tributes to the late, great Judee Sill, and fewer still who make incisive observations like "You can't play Beatles music with bullshit hair." Deals don't get any realer than Aaron Lee Tasjan, and you all need to make him a star at your earliest convenience. Go. I'll wait.
After ALT's hour of power, it was back to the Amphitheater for the transcendent magnificence of Lydia Loveless. She may have grown up in the hillbilly hinterlands of Coshocton, Ohio, but she is a city girl with enough Rock sass to satisfy any Indie hipster and enough twang to hold the interest of any Americana aficionado. In a set laced with electric greatness, primarily drawn from her latest album, Somewhere Else, Loveless and her brilliant band finished with an absolutely scorching take on "Boy Crazy," the title track from her 2013 EP. The song reached a fever pitch when guitarist Todd May, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth with noir-detective-meets-Bun-E.-Carlos nonchalance, sat on his feet in front of his amp at the back of the stage, coaxing an exquisite din of feedback from his guitar, while bassist/husband Ben Lamb concocted similarly haunted sounds by running his bass down Nick German's drum kit and Loveless herself fell onto her back on the stage and cranked out sheets of heart-stopping guitar madness. It was an extraordinary end to a truly amazing and all too brief set.
Exactly what is it about the Black Owls that resonates so completely with me? First, they effortlessly tap into that primal part of my brain that was developing during my teenage years when I was soaking up insane amounts of T. Rex, Mott the Hoople, David Bowie and the Stooges. Next, they punch forcefully into the neighboring brain cells, the ones that house the memories of discovering Television, Richard Hell & the Voidoids, Talking Heads, New York Dolls and Be Bop Deluxe. And it's not that they sound like any of those bands (although occasionally they do), it's that they remind me of that beautiful, mysterious time in my life when there was still music to be revealed, and the visceral thrill that accompanied every new discovery. That is what it is about the Black Owls. They once again made that abundantly clear at the Lawn Stage when they tore through old favorites ("Wild Children," "Julias Morningstar," "Sometimes I Wish You Were a Ghost"), brand new classics in waiting ("Gasoline" and "Rook") and an absolutely hair-raising spin through Harry Nilsson's "Jump Into the Fire."
It was the standard Black Owls greatness, which is to say the quintet, as usual, presented their most familiar elements in new and unexpected ways so that even a grizzled old veteran Owls watcher such as myself was knocked back a pace and surprised by it all. Black Owls make me long for the days when bands put out two albums a year for not other reason than they could. Bassist Kip Roe continues to weave himself into the fabric of the Owls' sound and, as frontman David Butler pointed out, guitarist Brandon Losacker is proving to be a perfect songwriting foil for Butler and co-founding guitarist Ed Shuttleworth. The Black Owls seem to be entering a period of gritty reassessment, where dirty Glam riffs and anthemic chord structures are dominating the proceedings. Yes, please, and quite a bit more, if it's quite all right. And even if it's not.
Before I review the psychodots' Bunbury debut, perhaps a history lesson is in order. A good many years ago, music mogul and purported industry genius Clive Davis sauntered into Cincinnati with the stated goal of checking out The Raisins and perhaps offering them a lucrative and much-deserved contract. When Davis departed from our fair city without signing The Raisins, he explained the lack of a deal thusly: "They're an embarrassment of riches."
Please allow me to read between the lines and translate that five word headscratcher into layman's terms. What Mr. Davis was so obtusely attempting to convey was this: "The Raisins are a stellar band and I don't have the slightest idea how to market them without making them as smooth and textureless as Gerber's babyshit and as lame as a beggar in the Bible, essentially stripping them of the elements that make them unique, and if you think I'm going to dismantle and destroy this band or permanently stain my sparklingly legendary resume with the ugly reality that I was unable to sell the music of a gifted band to a quality-starved public simply because I didn't understand the complexities of either one, you've got several unpleasantly aromatic things coming in a flaming bag on your front porch."
Of course, The Raisins famously broke up, reassembling as the Bears with guitarist Adrian Belew and refashioning as psychodots without Belew. So in a very tangible sense, we owe the existence of psychodots to Clive Davis' short-sighted inability to recognize their root band's brilliance. I was devastated that The Raisins didn't make it and, after the 'dots' loosely tight/tightly loose set at Bunbury, I am relieved beyond measure The Raisins didn't make it. Success would have come at a great and terrible cost, and we would not have enjoyed 20+ sporadically splendid years of psychodots Power Pop bliss.
There may have only been 100 or so bodies at the Amphitheater Stage to witness psychodots' fabulousness (Fitz and the Tantrums were sucking up bodies like a UFO set to "harvest," and rightly so) but the 'dots never give less than 89%, and they were in full charge mode on Friday afternoon. There was Rob Fetters' squiggly guitar magnificence (I'd put him up against any guitarist in the history of Rock, and he'd be only mildly uncomfortable at being up against any of them), Bob Nyswonger's bass conjuring, using his instrument to evoke lead guitar and keyboard mayhem (and by instrument, I'm still talking about his bass) and Chris Arduser's master class in How to Drum with Power and Grace and Still Maintain a Smartass Attitude.
It was a delightfully eclectic set, with a number of old favorites ("Master of Disaster," "Living in a Lincoln," complete with Fetters' mom-inspired balloon-on-the-strings gimmick), a few quasi-oddities ("Candy," the rarely performed "The Problem Song") and a handful of non-'dots nuggets ("She Might Try" from Arduser's exquisite The Celebrity Motorcade, The Bears' "Veneer" from their last album Eureka, "Play Your Guitar" from Fetters' patently perfect new solo album, Saint Ain't, The Raisins' fist-pumping "Fear is Never Boring") and the band's always entertaining banter (Fetters apropos of everything: "Is anyone tripping?"; Bob Nyswonger after Arduser's observation that the evening was balmy: "Balmy," stretched langorously into two words). It was, in a number of words, a standard psychodots show, which means one of the best shows you'll ever see, local or otherwise. Long may they reign.
After the breathless 'dots set, I was torn between the Heartless Bastards' triumphant return to the area or the unlikely but much welcomed reunion of Veruca Salt's original lineup. With more than a couple of Bastards sets under my belt and the prospect of many more to come, I opted for Veruca Salt because, even if the reunion sticks, the possibility of the band's return to Cincinnati seems remote. The foursome did not disappoint, hauling out blistering favorites from their slim catalog in this iteration and reinforcing why we've loved their Glam/Pop brilliance for so very long. Whatever caused the rift between co-fronts Louise Post (who has kept Veruca Salt going in some form or other for the past 21 years) and Nina Gordon (who departed for a solo career in 1998), there was no evidence of any residual friction as the quartet blew like a hurricane through "Volcano Girls," "Straight" and their signature brain-boiler "Seether." The band even teased a couple of songs – including "It's Holy" from this year's Record Store Day single — from what was described as "their upcoming thing;" that thing cannot come soon enough. As final proof of Veruca Salt's newly minted reunion, Post and Gordon kissed at center stage amid a beautiful howl of squalling feedback. As the lights came up, the '90s called, they want their awesome back; they can blow it out their ass, because Veruca Salt is hanging onto it with all eight arms.
For the evening's closer, Empire of the Sun, the Main Stage was nearly as packed with bodies and gear as the field in front of it. The band's epic stage show, which has been described as Cirque Du Soleiel without the airshow, requires a lot of moving parts, and the Bunbury crowd arrived in significant numbers to witness the Rock/Synth Pop/Electronic spectacle. Empire of the Sun's primary sparkplugs, Luke Steele and Nick Littlemore, and a veritable army of players and dancers offered up a wall of Prince-like Glam/Pop guitar and a danceable solution of Depeche Mode Synth Pop menace, all updated to a millennial frenzy of Muse/Daft Punk proportions. But rather than non-descript and identity shielding space/BMX helmets, EOTS prefers elaborate tribal headdresses that look like giant pre-immolation phoenixes atop the principals' heads. At one point, the dancers were all playing fake neon guitars in a 21st century version of Robert Palmer's "Addicted to Love" video. All of this plays out in front of a constantly shifting projection of disparate and arty images and screen saver light squiggles combined with a choreographed and dazzling light show that is both compelling and distracting. That dichotomy within the Empire of the Sun presentation matches the broad spectrum of reactions to the band's Cincinnati debut (and one of only a handful of American dates); the majority of the crowd was fully engaged in the band's expansive Vistavision sprawl, while a few canvased friends offered up opinions that ranged from "That was as exciting as watching glitter paint dry," to "Meh, it's okay," to "I totally love this." Editorial critique aside, Empire of the Sun was every bit as epic as advertised, and everyone who looks for spectacle in their Dancetronic music mix got more than their money's worth with Friday night's Bunbury closer.
SIDE NOTES
• I started the day with a deliciously smokey pulled pork sandwich from the geniuses at Eli's, a bun so overstuffed with barbeque goodness that it's actually a pulled pork sandwich with a side of pulled pork. It's as close to a religious experience as I've ever had outside of a church (where I have oddly never had a religious experience … go figure) or a music venue (where I've had plenty; I'm looking at you, Iggy Pop). Washed down with a Fathead beer, it was the perfect start to the third charmed Bunbury.
• At the Snowmine show, I ran into "Hey-look-everybody-it's" Stu, from Paul Roberts' Three-Amigos crew. Stu reported that Paul and maybe Big Jim would be along shortly. And, in fact, they were.
• On the way from X Ambassadors to the Amphitheater/Lawn Stage area, I ran into Eddy Mullet and his daughter Jess. Eddy is the volunteer host of the Friday night 6:00-8:00 pm shift at Class X Radio, where I have surreptitiously installed myself as his quasi-co-host; I do the weekly CityBeat Report, a rundown of weekend music events, and a segment I concocted called the Gang of Four Set, four songs that are connected by a theme of my own twisted design. Eddy is also the longstanding host of Kindred Sanction, the area’s longest-running local music program that was founded by Cynthia Dye Wimmer a fair number of years ago at WAIF. Cynthia brought the show to Class X six years ago, Eddy sat in occasionally as co-host and Cynthia backed out of the show to attend to her life. Eddy's passion for and knowledge of the local music scene is legendary, and anyone who has ever dealt with him knows him as a straight up guy and maybe one of the best boosters that local music has ever seen. Class X management has seen fit to cut the show's hours and alter the format, all of which is wrong-headed and counterproductive, but all that really matters to Eddy is spreading the gospel of greater Cincinnati's music scene. And Jess is turning into a Rock chick of the first order (not like that, you gutter-minded dimbulbs). Under Eddy's tutelage, she's becoming a pretty fair aficionado of local music herself; smart, funny and fearless, she will be a force to be reckoned with in some near future. At any rate, if you see Eddy wandering around, shake his hand and thank him for his long-suffering and often unappreciated work on behalf of local music.
• Eddy and Jess and I hit a run of shows together, including the ever amazing 500 Miles to Memphis, the astonishing Aaron Lee Tasjan (who Eddy hipped me to through his love of Drivin' n' Cryin'), the gear-stripping Lydia Loveless and the transcendent Black Owls. Eddy and I could talk music for days on end, which we do at every given opportunity. Eddy also introduced me to Aaron, who he'd met after a Drivin' n' Cryin' show; that kid is going places, if Eddy and I have anything to say about it.
• Finally ran into Paul and Big Jim at the Aaron Lee Tasjan set, with "Hey-everybody-it's" Stu in tow. These three are also a great bunch of music lovers and supporters, local and otherwise, with weird, esoteric tastes. In other words, my people. I love running into them, and swapping stories and having Paul buy me beers, which he most generously did during the psychodots' set.
• Also briefly caught up with the ever-stellar Kip Roe, freshly installed bassist for the Black Owls and a prince among men. His boys, Kip Jr. and Ben, were there to witness the Owls' casual brilliance (anchored by their dad's bedrock solid basslines), but post-show were anxious to head down to the Main Stage to witness the Soul/Pop frenzy of Fitz and the Tantrums. Kip and the boys won't be spending Saturday doing any Bunbury adventuring, as they're headed to a Modest Mouse show in Columbus (a bucket list event, as Kip described it), but they will be back for the Flaming Lips on Sunday. Kip's boys are huge Flaming Lips fans. God, I love Rock & Roll families.
• And speaking of such, my other favorite component of Black Owls shows is the chance to catch up with the Owl wives, Amy Butler, Carrie Losacker and Sarah Kitzmiller (and let's not forget Ed's girlfriend, whose name, like so many other things, slips my addled brain. Why, yes, I did enjoy the '70s. Why do you ask?). We were trying to come up with a name for their defacto support group; I propose the Owlettes, and given Friday's heat and humidity, the Moist Owlettes probably was more apt. At any rate, they are wonderful people to interact with, and I look forward to their company every bit as much as the Owls' soul-stirring, flashback-triggering presentations.
• And on that subject, Ed, his girlfriend and her daughter (again, names … I remember knowing them in some distant past; maybe if they had hats with their names on them. That's how Stu solved his dilemma …) caught up with me while I scarfing down a couple of cheese coneys before leaving Friday night and offered a heartfelt Rock & Roll tale. Ed's girlfriend's daughter (note to self: this would be better with names) is a huge fan of Walk the Moon and as fate would have it, frontman Nick Petricca happened to be in town and was catching the Empire of the Sun show. Ed's girlfriend's daughter spotted Nick, professed her undying love for Walk the Moon, they chatted for a bit and she got her picture taken with him. Nick is clearly one of the good guys and his very open and engaging response to a fan's sincere outpouring of love and support is one of the reasons for the band's incredible success. And, as I noted to Ed's girlfriend's daughter, "It's always nice when you meet your heroes and they're not dicks." Thus should it ever be.
• The only thing that could have made the night complete after that uplifting moment would be a quick run-in with Jacob Heintz, former Buckra guitarist and Rock volunteer of the gods, as his constant presence at MidPoint and now Bunbury will attest. Another one of the truly great people that define the Cincinnati music scene as one of best in the known universe. I am physically fading and spiritually soaring. It's a good feeling for the end of the first day of another fantastic Bunbury.

It smells
like drying piss and old beer on the back deck of Northside’s The Comet. The
air is filled with the dull thud of a concert beating up against the walls.
There are
shows at The Comet every night and people piss and drink there every night, and
John Hoffman and Dylan McCartney are there just about every night. Tonight they’re
just here to get drunk, but usually they’re the center of attention.
Hoffman and
McCartney are in emerging Cincinnati Punk band Sleeves. Hoffman calls the
band’s sound American Apparel Punk. Their debut EP Sex is Stupid can be downloaded for free here.
They’re a three-piece made up of Hoffman on lead guitar, McCartney on drums and
Alex Collins on bass. Hoffman and McCartney both sing, and they both end up on
the ground and sometimes injured by the end of their shows.
Cincinnati
has an active Do-It-Yourself music scene and Hoffman and McCartney are major
players in it. They organize and play shows and Hoffman even records, masters
and puts together records for other bands.
Sleeves has
played at The Comet, but most of the band’s shows aren’t held in traditional
music venues but houses.
Residents
all over the city are opening their basements, living rooms, decks and kitchens
to musicians that want to do what they love wherever they can do it.
“I still
remember the super visceral feeling I got from walking into my first house
show,” Hoffman says. “It was just like ‘Where the hell am I? I’ve never seen
anything cooler than this.’ I finally felt comfortable in a public space.”
From the
outside, a house show looks uncomfortable. There are usually four or five
terrifyingly big and tattooed guys stoically staring and bobbing their head to
the music. Mosh pits break out constantly, and beer gets all over everyone no
matter what, but it’s the closest thing to a bohemian utopia in Cincinnati —
anything can happen.
“At one
show, there was a point where everyone was crowd surfing just so they could tag
the ceiling with spray paint,” Hoffman says. “It became a group effort where
everyone was holding people up so they could tag the ceiling. That house was a
wreck.”
“Suffice to
say they probably didn’t get their deposit back,” McCartney added.
There’s no
malice in these ways of destruction and these different looking people. They
worked together to tag the ceiling — vandalism — but with teamwork, so it’s OK.
The terrifying gentlemen are the first to help anyone up who gets knocked over.
For every beer that’s dumped, 10 more are handed out. All the dirt, grunge and
basement gunk are exactly what Cincinnati’s DIY bands need. The bands are good
enough for big venues, but something is lost when people have to pay to get in,
pay to drink and pay to eat and they can’t go outside for a cigarette and walk
back in without getting hassled.
“My other
band [Mardou] played at Bogart’s once and it was the worst show of my whole
life,” McCartney says. “I’ve had shows which were one-twentieth the amount of
people, at a house or something, and it was so much more fun to me. You connect
to people at a show like that and they connect to you.”
House shows
are intimate. There’s usually only an inch between you and the mic stand, but
the intimacy comes from more than just close proximity. Certain houses become
“venues” all on their own by regularly hosting shows — like The Outhouse in
Clifton Heights and The Last House on the Left on Kirby Avenue in Northside. Communities
form around these bands and houses, and people that feel like they didn’t fit
in anywhere can find a home in someone else’s house. It’s an Island of Misfit
Toys that serves Skyline chili.
“At the end
of the day, I think it’s just an arts community — or a weirdos community,”
Hoffman says.
Sleeves’ next
show is Tuesday, June 24, in the basement of Lucy Blue Main Street location in
Over-the-Rhine. Find details here.

The Cincinnati Chamber Orchestra concludes
its 40th season on June 1 amid symptoms of classic midlife crisis.
There’s no equivalent of a red Porsche, but there are serious concerns
about the organization’s viability and how it might reinvent itself in a
continually uncertain marketplace.

Former SHADOWRAPTR drummer Aaron Collins goes solo in a big way with 'Godlessly Oscillating'

It’s not surprising that Cincinnati's Aaron Collins
chose to conduct our recent interview in a coffee shop. Given the
entries in his planning calendar, which include juggling his work
schedule, two bands and all the activities related to his debut solo
album, Godlessly Oscillating, one wouldn’t be surprised if Collins were taking his caffeine intravenously these days.

Circus of the Sun, Matt Mooney and Billy Catfish return to the stage

Circus of the Sun, Matt Mooney and Billy Catfish return to local stages this week. Plus, The Whiskey Shambles win Northeast Ohio Blues Association Blues
Challenge, earning a slot at the International Blues Challenge, and Taste of Cincinnati returns with some piping hot local music.